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far way with it, yet the last thing she wanted to do was stifle Lizzy’s natural openness and charm.
    “Miss Emma,” her nearly deceased Mercutio called, straightening, “can’t I use just a little berry juice for blood?”
    “Eeewww. If you do, I shall faint,” Mary Mawgry said, using the tip of her sword to clean one fingernail.
    “No, you may not.” Emma entered Verona from the backstage area. “That’s what the red scarf symbolizes. You all worked very hard on your splendid costumes, and I won’t see them ruined, even for the sake of drama. Now please continue; this is our last dress rehearsal. We debut in six hours.”
    She retreated backstage again as Elizabeth finally succumbed to her wound, and Romeo and Tybalt began their duel. Despite Mary’s frequent threats to faint, the shy miss had improved so much as Romeo that Emma wanted to cheer. Miss Mawgry’s parents would be amazed at the change the next time they saw their “mumbling” daughter, as they’d referred to Mary on far too many occasions.
    “Em,” Isabelle whispered, waving a letter at her as she made her way through the wardrobe area, “I think you’ve received an answer.”
    Finally. She’d waited over a day for it. The sudden fluttering in her stomach had nothing to do with concern over her students’ performance. She wasn’t certain why she’d felt the need to write Wycliffe when he so obviously didn’t give a hangabout the Academy, but knowing he had her letter had kept her restless and awake all night.
    Emma took the missive from her French instructor and unfolded it. The sight of the dark, masculine scrawl made her pulse skip—until she read it. “‘Madame,’” it began, “‘I am in receipt of your recent overblown correspondence.’” She shook the letter at Isabelle, annoyance flooding in.
    “ Overblown ? He says my letter was overblown!”
    “Shh, Emma. The rehearsal.”
    Snapping her jaw shut, she continued reading to herself. “‘While a sentence or two was of passing interest, it unfortunately did not address the matter lying between your Academy and Haverly. I have enclosed the rental agreement for your signature. I shall collect it this evening after your play, which my friends and I have been persuaded to attend.’” There was no long list of titles and honors at the end of the letter; just the word “Wycliffe,” scrawled across the bottom of the page.
    Emma blanched. He was coming to see the play.
    “Are you well?” Isabelle asked, clutching her elbow as she abruptly took a seat.
    “Yes, quite.” She couldn’t tell her students, of course; their confidence and concentration would be ruined as soon as they learned a duke—especially a large, golden lion of a duke—would be in attendance.
    She scowled. That was probably why he had informed her—so her girls would be nervous and make a bad showing. Her first instinct was to tear up the letter, tromp on the pieces, and set the remaining bits on fire. While that would be immensely satisfying, though, it wouldn’t take care of her problem.
    “Isabelle, Sir John will be in attendance tonight, won’t he?”
    “ Oui . He said he would come early, to help Tobias secure Juliet’s balcony and the ladder.”
    “Good.” Basingstoke’s resident solicitor, Sir John, had always been a staunch supporter of the Academy. She refolded the letter and the agreement and stuffed them into her Nurse padding. The Duke of Wycliffe might think he could bully her into doing what he wanted, but she had no intention of giving in without a fight—or a war.
    A chorus of giggles from the stage caught her attention. Lady Jane leaned behind the curtain and grimaced at her. “‘O, here comes my nurse,’” she said loudly, “‘and she brings news.’”
    “Oops.” Emma jumped to her feet and hobbled onto the stage. Now that dratted Wycliffe was interfering with her instruction—another black mark against him. “‘Ah, weraday, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s